


And Now I'm Losing You

by lizthefangirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellarke, Canon Compliant, F/M, Wonkru, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizthefangirl/pseuds/lizthefangirl
Summary: Post 5.08. Clarke finds herself in yet another cell, with no real hope of being saved. Meanwhile, Bellamy faces the consequences of his actions—both external and internal.





	1. The Only One

**Author's Note:**

> CHAPTER TWO IS UP NOW! Thanks to everyone who wanted to see where the story went. It’s a happier alternative to 5.09... kind of.

_But this is all I ever was_  
_And this is all you came across those years ago_  
_Now you go too far_  
_Don't tell me that I've changed because that's not the truth_  
_And now I'm losing you_

Clarke was wondering if every twisting road in her life eventually led to a prison cell.

There had been the first, thousands of miles above, covered wall to wall in drawings. She had been waiting for death there, too. And for something like it when she awoke in Mount Weather, ever haunted by the blank white walls. Thenthere had been the holding cell Diyoza had chucked her into, so very recently. After the dream that hadn't been a dream, the figure that stood illuminated in the glare of headlights. 

This cell, this sentence, felt altogether different.

Because there was simply no escaping, no evading an execution. Her instinct screamed that Bellamy would fight for her, argue a way out—or, God forbid, a way  _in_  for himself. No, he wouldn't; he couldn't keep his promise to protect Madi if he did that. She was certain the realization had crossed his mind.

But her only way out was unshakable, perhaps most of all by him; though he was plenty aware of the sheer wrongness of Octavia's behavior, he would never go to the necessary measures to stop her. Then again, Clarke might say the same for herself. Not because she was incapable of killing Octavia, but because of what it would do to him. To the way he looked at her, thought of her.

Maybe prioritizing his opinion of her was selfish, or would be, were Madi not also at risk. 

She felt sick. Unsteady.

It wasn't death that troubled her; she had shook its hand on more than one occasion, even prepared to let it embrace her completely that day, knelt in the sand.

But who she would leave behind. . . 

She believed in Bellamy's final promise to her. And yet, she wondered if Madi would  _let_ him keep her safe, or if taking her place at Blodreina's side had truly changed her. Clarke told herself it was too soon, that she wouldn't be turned so quickly. But she'd seen her grip Octavia's arm in lethal accord. The spark in her eye as she'd fought in the pit. The way it had flared with pride at Octavia's offer.

Had she already lost her? Just like that?

For the first time, a rotten part of her wished Bellamy and the others had never returned. That the bunker had stayed sealed. That Diyoza's ship had never landed. That it would have been Clarke and Madi, the latter always safely within her reach. 

She cursed herself silently. Six years, she'd hoped every day that she might see her friends again—see him again. And it was a blasphemous lie that she would trade anything for those moments in that cell, finally seeing his face, hearing his voice. Even after, when the time that had passed became increasingly evident. . .

She wouldn't sacrifice Madi. She wouldn't sacrifice Bellamy.

It was a raw, blatant truth that wrung out her heart. 

_Suddenly I'm the one letting my heart rule my head._

_Mama bears don't think. They just protect their young._

She cracked a smile, eyes stinging. It had taken her breath away, his understanding. His reassurance. She had forgotten what it was to be known by anyone but Madi—not just recognized, but  _known_ , truly and deeply. They didn't know each other as they had, of course. Too much had happened, too many days spent apart.

But she was starting to find that time and distance mattered to her less and less.

God, she didn't want to leave them. Didn't want to imagine what might be unleashed in Bellamy when she died on his sister's command—

A terrible chill crept over her skin.

Like prison cells, goodbyes seemed to be a sort of curse in her life. Or lack thereof.

She couldn't count the times in her life she'd regretted words unsaid upon separation. Naturally, the worst had been the rifts at Praimfaya, between her and everyone she loved. But even before. . . 

She remembered standing by the river with Bellamy one day, before he had to depart. He'd been about to say something—

_If I don't see you again. . ._

She had stopped him immediately, much like he had done to her that day in the lab.

_No, you will._

The truth was, she'd often wondered exactly what he would have said. What it might have meant for them, if she'd let him. 

Perhaps she wasn't completely powerless in this cell. Perhaps she could at least fix this one thing.

She rose from the concrete bench, guards turning at the noise. She held her hands up. "I need to write something down, please."

The taller man sneered; she very vaguely recognized him as Trikru, where he'd been in a similar role. "Prisoners of Wonkru are not entitled to—"

"I'm not asking for much," she countered, as evenly as she could. "I just need to say goodbye to the people I—"

"You will sit down and be silent," he snarled.

"A member of my family is Blodreina's newly appointed Second in battle," Clarke snapped, the words burning her throat as they always did. "She will be outraged to know about this execution, let alone that you denied us a farewell." 

 _Mama bear,_ all right.

"I have no mercy for traitors to Wonkru."

She almost rolled her eyes.  _There was no Wonkru six years ago—_

The thought stopped her dead in her tracks. Heart pounding, she carefully chose her words, as well as her language.

" _Yu get klen Blodreina nou ste fousen Heda."_

_You know Blodreina isn't the rightful Commander._

The other, smaller guard whirled, his angrier counterpart turning deep red. "That—is treason—"

"What, are you gonna kill me twice?"

The second guard interrupted the first's growling retort, voice low and forlorn: " _Ba Heda stedaun."_

_But the Commander is dead._

Clarke shook her head, quoting Gaia:  _"'Auda riskines, Fleimon-de kigon. Medo gyon klin, ba Keryon ste yuj.'"_

_Through the dark, the Flame lives on. The body passes, but the Spirit is strong._

Their eyes widened.

"There is a true Commander who still lives," she breathed, tasting bile. "Do you still protect  _Heda?_ "

" _Otaim,_ " the second guard said softly, eyes shining. He shoved the man beside him, who reluctantly agreed.

_Always._

Of course, she didn't trust them. She would never reveal who Madi was. Instead: "Go to Gaia, tell her I sent you. She'll understand."

Because Gaia, at least, would not let harm come to Madi. And Clarke had to believe her when she said the child would have a choice. 

"Now let me write something. Please."

They shuffled, murmuring. The calmer guard withdrew, returning moments later with a sheet of notebook paper and a pencil. She accepted them through the bars.

"And if anything happens to  _Heda—_ if you betray this person," Clarke intoned slowly, "Then  _I_  will rise from the ashes and kill you both myself." On the impossible chance she did escape, she likely would anyway.

The men had the foresight to keep their backs turned as she sank to the floor, using the bench as a table. The concrete's texture made her letters a bit haphazard, but she didn't deign to pause. 

She couldn't bear to address it to Madi. Instead, she wrote to Bellamy _—_ as meticulously as she had written his name on that list of a hundred. She followed with her message to Madi, asking that he would relay it. And then. . .

She decided if they were really to be her last words to him, there was a lot to say. Some of it would hurt. 

Some of it was selfish. Cruel, even. But she hoped he would understand, later. She hoped he, too, had felt the lingering sting left by improper farewells—and might be grateful that she hadn't left him to wonder.

 

_—_

 

Bellamy had called the guards, just after he'd placed the tainted bar into his pocket. And after he'd decided his voice hadn't disappeared for good.

"I want names!" he bellowed to her followers, desperate. "I want to know every person who would do this to her."

"Bellamy," Miller said quietly, "We will not rest until we find—"

"She was listening," he breathed, turning to Indra's calm face. "We were talking, she was finally  _listening_ —"

"Compose yourself," she snapped. "Your conversation is confidential. You must not speak so openly about Blodreina's plans."

He hated that  _name_. Wasn't faking the venom in his voice as he said, "She pardoned her."

Indra's face hardly shifted, though the guards around her blinked in surprise.

"Clarke was framed for Cooper's death," he continued hoarsely. "She must have been. I was with her the whole day. I only got to explain that  _after_  you all dragged her away to be killed." He stared right at Indra as he said it, a challenge. "But you were just following orders."

" _Em dula dison,_ " a guard hissed to her.

She hesitated before replying sharply. " _Du ste seingeda."_

His lip curled. " _Wonkru em java seingeda!_ " 

" _Noumou! Yu nou chich op kom Blodreina,"_ she roared. "And I believe him."

Luckily, they were all focused on her, for he was sure relief limned his face. 

"I will escort him to the cells," Indra said. "The rest of you—take her to her chambers. And find the person responsible."

"We don't have a healer," someone said.

Bellamy stiffened slightly. "Maybe one of my people could take a look."

"Later," Indra said, already filing out, calling behind her, " _Dula'm op nau!"_

He didn't need a translation, for everyone snapped into action. He was a bit breathless as he followed her. "Indra—thank y—"

"Have you killed her, too?"

He faltered, heat rising in his face. "Of course not. It's a coma from something she ate."

"What something?"

"Space algae. She should recover in a few days—after we find peace. Indra, where is Madi?"

"With the other children, finishing her training."

He nodded to himself. He wanted to go to her first—but realized she wouldn't know what had happened to Clarke. Or Cooper, or Octavia. And the guards could still think the execution was on—

"When was she supposed to be executed," he choked.

"Tonight."

He paled, noticed their brisk pace for the first time. Live panic flared as he realized begging for her life, as Octavia had suggested, may have been pointless.  They entered another gray corridor, the doors heavier-looking, windows barred.

"Stay here," Indra ordered, giving him no choice as she stalked around a corner. 

Muffled Trigedasleng met his ears, its tone far from liberating. A lock slid and a door opened. A chorus of steady footsteps—

Then grunts of pain. 

He immediately bounded ahead, finding a pale Clarke pressed against a wall some meters off—and Indra stood over two bodies, blade bloodied. It wasn't her own, he realized as she dropped it to the floor. 

"What have you done," he rasped. Clarke's head whipped around at his voice. 

"If someone  _else_ was responsible," Indra said, "Then why would that be their only crime?"

He half-saw her logic, still stunned. His adrenaline was waning as he finally met Clarke's eyes. "You okay?"

She stared at him, something odd in her expression. His brows lowered, another question forming before Indra quipped, "We need to get away from here—and have a discussion."

He nodded, letting her pass, waiting until Clarke was at his side. In his examination for any signs of harm, his eyes slid to her hands, a crumpled paper folded between them. "I was just sketching," she said softly, sheepish. "Calms me down."

" _Nau, Wanheda,"_ Indra pressed.

As they fell into step behind her, he spoke quietly. "You do a lot of that?" No need to say  _before._

She glanced sidelong at him, an appreciative glint to her eyes as she nodded. 

He was experiencing a subdued sort of panic that baffled him; he'd managed to keep his composure in the tent and the office, even as his sister tried to provoke him. He was keeping it now, seeing that Clarke was safe. But it was a mask over the unequivocal truth that he couldn't handle the alternative.

Octavia had known it; she just hadn't known. . . The gravity of it. Even he hadn't until their conversation, these moments of relief.

Indra stopped in an alcove. "Tell me more about Madi."

Clarke's coldness was palpable as she replied, "What does she have to do with anything? Where is—"

"Algae," Bellamy muttered to her. "I. . . She's unconscious. Temporarily."

Pure shock lit her gaze for an instant before she gently went on, "How did she know it was me?" 

"Both of you," Indra corrected curtly, explaining the ploy with the eggs. 

"An accident," Bellamy gaped. "God."

"We need to take Diyoza's deal, right now," Clarke said. "While there's still time."

"It won't happen," Indra said. "Wonkru won't accept any decision without Blodreina's approval."

"The only decision she's been willing to approve so far is massacring hundreds of people!" Bellamy countered. "Surely everyone here can't want war."

Clarke appeared pensive, gears turning. Instead of finishing whatever thought she was having, she said, "Whatever happens, I have to protect Madi. I can't take her from here; it's too late for that. Indra, you have a daughter. . . What would you do to keep her alive?"

"A foolish question," she scoffed. 

"Exactly," Clarke said, dipping her chin. "Hopefully it won't come to that."

He searched her face, longing to decipher the wrinkle between her brows, the slight frown of her mouth. "To what, Clarke?"

She just shook her head. "Like I said, we need to contact Diyoza. Octavia  _is_ technically taken out, for the time being. People can choose whether or not they want to comply with the deal, but. . . We have to hope plenty of them want a peaceful arrangement. And that she will keep her word."

They continued this manner of terse negotiation for a few minutes before it was decided that they would make the call in an hour—after Indra reported the dead guards she "found" and explained Clarke and Bellamy's whereabouts. 

She practically bolted to Madi's training area, Bellamy on her heels. The young girl peered at them as they approached, bewildered. "Clarke, what—"

But she already locked her arms around her, clutching her like she'd turn to vapor if she let go. Instead of speaking to her, she called Gaia's name. The former Flamekeeper approached, tense enough that he figured she had some knowledge of the situation at hand. "Madi. I need you to stay with Gaia, okay? There's been some trouble."

Madi pulled away to stare up at her. "Where's Octavia?"

Bellamy held his breath as he felt Clarke shatter somewhere inside, hesitating.

"Blodreina is in a mysterious sleep," Gaia answered smoothly. 

"You mean. . . like. . ." Her brow furrowed as she glanced up at Clarke. "Snow White?"

"Kind of like that," she replied, smiling gently. "No one knows much, but Bellamy and I are going to help them figure it out. If someone did attack her, I want to know where you are, Madi. If they could take down a warrior like Octavia, they could get anyone. . . Even her guards." The other children listened as Clarke gravely explained that she'd heard commotion while in a "lab," only to be met by a stunned Indra, who reported the casualties in the prison sector. "Whoever this is might be lethal, but not to Octavia. Not yet."

Madi nodded, though clearly frustrated at her assignment. 

God. 

_Second in battle._

Devastation wrought Bellamy's gut. Not just at the title she'd granted, but at the fact that he'd let Octavia do this. He hadn't been able to interfere earlier, when she'd been gone long before.

He'd made it a significant amount of time without pondering the words that had singed him, but hearing the lie that Clarke spun. . .

_A traitor._

_Who you love._

He had immediately filtered it out of refusal to ponder it further, unsure of what responses that might produce. The empty, frantic explanations had come fast: Maybe it was another attempt to undermine his relationship with Echo, Clarke just happening to be the best candidate for comparison. Or maybe, she was simply using the word _love_ to throw him off, knowing there wasn't truth to it—not like that. Of course he loved Clarke. He also loved Monty and Raven and Harper and a number of others.

But. 

Clarke's name had come right after Echo's, or close enough. 

_Who you love._

Not friendly love—or some deeper, devoted version of it. 

_A traitor._

Octavia had seen their embrace in the desert.

_Who you love._

She'd seen another embrace years ago, at the gates of Camp Jaha.

He looked at her now, heard her speak to Madi as if from a distance, that paper still in her fist. 

And he felt chagrin wash through him at last, as lies and truths abruptly began to unravel.

_Now there's something I thought I'd never see._

She saw it now. And had forced him to see it, too—a blow immeasurable to the rest.


	2. Fragile Sounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo 5.09 never happened. I started writing it before 5.09. And you know what? None of that mess is touching the events of this one. None of them.

The call to Diyoza had been made; whatever that meant, exactly, Madi wasn't sure. But as she sat with Clarke and Bellamy in Octavia's office, she could feel a tense sort of relief between them. They'd retrieved her from Gaia's care a few minutes ago, and sat in wait of. . . something. She wasn't sure of what that was, either.

The first thing Madi had asked Indra upon seeing her again was if Octavia was better. The Wonkru warrior had told her no, and Madi's chest had tightened further.

She wanted to know what had happened to her. The coward who had done it. 

Now that she'd shown what she could do in combat. . . Maybe they'd let her have a minute with that person.  

Something else weighed on her, more than even Blodreina's state. 

When Clarke had left her with Gaia, there'd been a short scuffle as the rest of the children departed, some of the ones she'd bested in the pit even coming around to pat Madi on the shoulder. She had noticed Clarke was holding something as she waited for them to pass, which she had then disposed of on her way out with Bellamy. Madi had quickly gone to the bin and fished out the paper, tucking it into her jacket as she joined Gaia.

She had ample time to open it, straighten out the wrinkles as best she could. She saw it was to Bellamy, but then saw her own name in the first paragraph.

Maybe it was wrong to read it, but. . . Clarke _had_ thrown it away. 

Madi could see why—kind of. 

Bellamy and Clarke's relationship baffled her a little bit. Not during the six years he was gone; Clarke's words about him, her desperation for his return, her loyalty to him. . . They had a silent agreement to not to use  _that_ word. Madi had said it once by accident; after hearing so many fairy tales, it seemed obvious.

 _When did you know you loved him?_ Madi had asked.

Clarke's face had gone white, then red. And she had just shook her head tightly. That was it. 

But the letter. . .

She watched the two of them closely, now. There had been the moments with Echo; the first time, Madi had  _felt_ Clarke's reaction, her head still buried in her chest. Her movements had stuttered and slowed, before she had pasted a false smile on her face. The second time, in the camp, there had been no hiding the silent, wounded shock in her eyes. But she had masked it just as quickly when Bellamy turned. 

Madi had realized something in that moment, which had briefly infuriated her: There was Clarke and Bellamy before there was Clarke and Madi. 

And she'd felt the need to get away, to be something else. Something of her own—and hoped Octavia might help her do it. And she had. 

But when she'd heard Clarke was in danger, she realized there was no Madi without Clarke, not ever. 

There was also no Clarke without Bellamy. Not ever.

And the thing was, he didn't seem to know it. 

It wasn't right for Madi to get involved. But she also realized Clarke must have planned on giving the letter to him as she went to die. Like. . . she couldn't bear to say it while she was alive.

Madi could. 

—

 

Hours passed before she had her chance. The day had basically gone to hell, but everyone still had to sleep. Madi crept around to Bellamy's tent after Clarke was finally under.

"Bellamy?" she tried softly. "Are you there?" 

At first silence, then a gruff, "Madi—" Fabric rustled as he shifted, then parted the tent, dark eyes sharp. "Is everything all right? Is Clarke—"

"She's okay," Madi said gently. "As okay as any of us are."

He nodded, thoughtful—and to her surprise, his eyes locked on her hand. On the paper. His brows lowered.

"Clarke wrote this in her cell—to you." He didn't so much as glance away from the note as she continued, "She threw it away—I know, I know should've left it! But I didn't know what it was, and—"

"Madi," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That was an invasion of privacy—"

"You don't have to read it. You can throw it away. But I thought I'd offer. . ." She bit her lip. "I'm really sorry. Please don't tell Clarke."

He took a deep breath, accepting the letter. "It's okay. Thanks, Madi."

She nodded, half-turning before pursing her lips. "Thank you for getting her out."

"I—of course," he said firmly, voice breaking. "Thank  _you_ for taking care of her."

She smiled, nodding again before bidding him goodnight. 

And wondering if she had just made a horrific mistake. 

 

—

 

Bellamy weighed the paper in his hand, throat tight. He wondered for the first time what Madi would think if she knew what he'd done to Octavia; her admiration of his sister was still slightly stunning to him. Would she hate him, if she knew?

He loosed a breath, having already decided he wasn't going to read it. Whatever she'd written had been. . . 

His eyes closed as the realization settled. 

These would have been her last words to him. 

Had it been sudden? As if she had forgotten something important? Was she planning on telling him later, now that she knew her life wasn't lost?

He set the note on the little table, retiring back to his cot with measured resolve.

It wasn't fair to read it, even if Madi had seemed to think he should. 

That, and many other variations of it, filled his head for the next two hours. They felt far longer in his exhausted state. When he finally rose again, lighting a lamp and retrieving the note, he reasoned that maybe if he just— _skimmed_ it, this late at night. . . Maybe that wasn't technically  _reading_ —

"Dammit," he hissed, unfolding it at last, the paper so creased it marred the writing—but not enough. 

 

_Bellamy,_

_First of all, I need you to tell Madi I love her, that I'm so proud of her. And I would never, ever leave her, if there was any other choice. Tell her I am so sorry—but that she has been the greatest joy of my life. I love you,_ strikon.  _Be strong. Bellamy is going to keep you safe. Always choose to live, choose to love. It's not weakness, Madi; it is the mightiest strength in the world. Do not let anyone tell you different; only fools believe otherwise. And you are no fool._

_If you see my mom, tell her I love her, too. And that she must heal._

_Bellamy, I don't want to leave you, either—too damned soon. But I know you'll choose to do what's right. You'll choose hope._

_I chose hope, too, six years ago. There were days when I didn't—when I didn't choose anything at all. But I survived, because I found Madi. And because I had you in my ears, my head, my heart, every second._

 

He faltered, re-reading the line. Once, twice. The words never changed. 

 

_How could I say that to you after six years? After you'd found healing, found love?  I was so stupid; I always thought when you came back, it would be easy—not completely, of course, but. . . It's us. It's you and me._

_Telling you this as I'm going to die is not right, to you or to Echo. I'm truly sorry. But Bellamy, I lived for six years hating the last useless words we said to each other. You told me to hurry. I told you to the same. And then you were shot into the stars, and that was that. Except it wasn't, sort of. I kept talking to you, on radio transmissions that never reached you. I called you 2,199 times (was it weird that I counted the days?)._

 

He shook his head. He had counted days, too. Every one of them. Which meant—

He gusted a sigh.

She called him.

Once a day. For six years. 

 

 _You know what really sucks? How blind I was when you were still here. How, even when I had a vision telling me I was going to die,_ _I couldn't admit what I felt. What I'd been feeling. Because I didn't really know until you were gone for good. For a long time, I thought it would be the first thing I said to you when I saw you again._

_But then, even before I knew about you and Echo, I couldn't. I couldn't even tell you about the radio, because I saw that you were okay—you were whole. You had what you needed. I knew you cared about me, you still do. And you still understand me—so damned much. And that makes it worse, in a way. Why did that have to stay the same, when so much changed about us both? Why couldn't you have forgotten, or repressed it, or been mad at me for some reason?_

_Why is loving you still so_   _easy?_

 

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't—

_Who you love who you love who you—_

He was being pried apart—

 

_It's the thing I never said. Saying it, even now, is so hard. It hurts. I wish it didn't, but that doesn't mean I wish you weren't with Echo. That doesn't mean I want you to turn on everything you've become. All I want is for you to know. I don't want you to wonder—hell, maybe you never have._

_It was the only choice to stay behind. To save you guys. But given any other choice. . ._

_Bellamy, I would have spent every day with you up there, and I think I would've been happy. I really do._

_But I would never trade anything for finding Madi. For your healing, your leadership—for still being the man I have loved all these years. I am so proud of you._

_Finally, I guess I need to thank you again, for keeping me alive—which might seem ill-timed, but this isn't your fault. And if you march in here trying to blame yourself, I will kill you before Wonkru can._

_I want to thank you for being everything you are. I want you to know how loved you are, and that I will never blame you for choosing your heart—even if it's still Octavia's. I understand, Bellamy. Just be smart, be careful. Try to diplomatic. Keep Madi safe._

_You are the other greatest joy in my life. I love you, Bellamy Blake._

_I have always seen you._

She didn't sign her name. Didn't need to, with the way it rang in his head, drowning every other thought.

His face was wet, his palms slick. 

It was a mistake, reading this. Knowing too much.

She was meters away from him, now. Yet he felt like he was back in space.

Because Clarke Griffin loved him, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really difficult to determine a realistic way for the contents of the letter to come out; I figured it might be more interesting (and maybe even more realistic) to write it from Madi's POV, especially given her background knowledge of Clarke's feelings. Thankfully, the scene in the cell from 5.09 helped me out. 
> 
> Yeah but the rest of the episode didn't. I'm grateful for the angst, but I hope this was a brighter alternative. I might even continue it to cope with what's about to happen in the show.
> 
> Comments are love. Comments are life. Thanks guys.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigedasleng in Bellamy's POV:
> 
> "Em dula dison." - "He did it."
> 
> "Du ste seingeda." - "[Bellamy and Octavia] are family."
> 
> "Wonkru em java seingeda!" - "Wonkru is her family!"
> 
> "Noumou! Yu nou chich op kom Blodreina." - "Enough! You do not speak for Blodreina."
> 
> "Dula'm op nau!" - "Do it now!"


End file.
